Logan stumbled into the unlit kitchen of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters, sleep making his movement slow and clumsy. Fumbling his hand across the wall, he found the lightswitch and flicked it, wincing as the bright light assaulted his retinas. Stifling a yawn so as not to wake the slumbering kids on the floors above, he dragged a chair over to the fridge and stood on it, becoming level with a cupboard above it, far too high for the younger students to reach. Opening the door, he dragged a small safebox out, manoeuvring it down onto the table, knocking the cupboard door shut with an elbow. The numbness of sleep nearly gone now, he sat down in front of the box and reached out a hand.

Creak

Logan froze, his hand immobile in the air. Eyes darting from left to right, he checked all the available options. Door, window, second door, ventilation grid. All seemed clear, but there was only one way to be sure he wasn't being paranoid. Inhaling sharply through his nose, Logan tested the air, searching for any signs of abnormal activity. And found none.

Frowning, he stood up and moved to the window, his bare feet deathly silent on the tiled floor. Leaning back to make a smaller target, he squinted through the glass, gazing out over the grounds of the school. The basketball court, the fountain and, of course, the memorial garden. Illuminated starkly by the bright moon, they were all quiet and still.

Snorting in self-derision, Logan flopped back into the chair, keying the six-digit combination into the side of the box. A high shelf was one thing, but there were other people in this school, adolescent and teacher alike, who were just as tall, if not taller than he, and the contents of this box was for him, and him alone. Cocking his head to check if the coast was clear, he opened the box, getting a gentle blast of cool air right in the face. Reaching in, he pulled out a can of beer and inspected it. Allowing himself a small smile in anticipation, he cracked the ring-pull and took a swig.

"That's the stuff..." he murmured, sitting back in the chair and savouring the flavour. The one thing he drew the line at, despite having to chaperone kiddies who missed home, take his turn at washing the dishes and getting beaten continuously by Kurt at shooting hoops, was only being able to drink soda. A man had his limits. And he'd be damned if he would share it with Bobby or Kitty, even though they were both fast approaching eighteen.

He grinned. If he'd been able to walk through walls at eighteen, no girl's dormitory would have been safe. Then again...

With a snik, he unsheathed a single adimantium claw from between the index and middle fingers of his right hand and stared at it. If he'd been able to walk through walls, Stryker wouldn't have given him these. But he was dead and gone. Along with other people...people who mattered more...

He took another pull of beer, sheathed his blade and ran his hand through his dark hair, sighing through his teeth. So much change...so many losses and upheavals. But it was over. It was finally over. Lenshaw was harmless, the Brotherhood scattered, the "cure" was no longer in production and, best of all, he had his own motorcycle.

Nodding, he stood up slowly, crushing the empty can and tossing it across the room into the bin with unerring precision. Closing the lid of the security-cooler, he made sure he heard the pneumatic hiss of the lock catching before he put it back. He stretched his arms above his head and glanced at the clock above the sink: quarter to twelve. Maybe he'd actually get a decent night's sleep without having to mumble awkward comforts to preteens who missed their families and didn't know what was happening to them. He could empathise there, at least. Sniffing, this time in fatigue, he reached out and found the lightswitch, taking in the kitchen one last time before plunging it into darkness again.

He was where he belonged.

That was when the bike shed exploded.